Weak Adjective
by Cheimon
Summary: "My strength is in my restraint. My strength is sacrifice. " But what if no one cares?


**Notes: Hestia was the goddess of the hearth, Zeus' eldest sibling, and one of the original Twelve. She tended the hearth and burned offerings for the gods on Olympus. She gave up her place on Olympus for Dionysus, the god of wine. This prevented further conflict. **

**Kindly let me know what you think. This is my first fic, and I'm looking for ways to improve my writing.**

"Weak Adjective"

You have never seen me. I blend into the background; my features run into the marble and the flames - a smoky haze. The form I usually take is that of a girl, tall with strong flat cheekbones and a wide mouth. My eyes are dark amber and slanted. My hair is dark and thick and hides me. Don't look too closely at my eyes. You won't like what you see there.

I am safest when I fade into the dark.

Then, I am forgotten. An afterthought.

No one knows me. It's better that way. There isn't much to know.

Those who glance my way say I am a "good girl." It is a scrap of affection one might toss to a dog. I am old, the eldest of the original Olympian Twelve, but "girl" doesn't bother me. "Good" does. It is a weak adjective. I am a weak adjective. But it is expected of me. I am a good girl; I do what people expect. It keeps me safe. It keeps the others happy. They believe they understand me. They like that. It gives them control. That is why Poseidon and Apollo each, at one time or another, wanted to marry me. They did not love me, but I am as steady as the tides or the rising of the sun - a good partner, responsible and respectable. I, of course, said "no." Those are the only times I have refused my siblings. I love them; I cannot stop myself from loving them. I am their sister, retiring protector. I show this love by yielding to their requests.

I do not join in my siblings' revelries, nor do I participate in their dramas. I simply watch from the hearth. I have seen Hera lament unfaithful Zeus, and Artemis mourn Orion. Apollo jokes with Hermes. Athena grieves those fallen in battle, in the ways she can allow herself. I have seen them all at their best and their worst, without the masks they present to the rest of the world. All pretense and pretending falls away at the hearth. Except for mine: I am the biggest pretender of all.

I want peace. It is weak of me to say, but that is what I want. I protect the hearth. I keep the fire burning in Olympus. That is my duty. That is what I have always done. That is who I am, who I have always been. If I step outside my role as passive guardian, what then would happen? I do not want to know. I fear change. The hearth should always be a place of peace and warmth. I do not want to disrupt the balance. But there is one little part of me that I bury deep in the ash. The part that whispers: _I want to know. I want to see - could I become strong? _No, no, I remind myself, because I am already strong. My strength is in my restraint. I am restrained and dutiful enough to walk off a cliff if my brother, Zeus, demands it. That is my strength - sacrifice.

Aggressive strength is the others' task, not mine. Good girls don't seek what is forbidden. Good girls sacrifice. Good girls do not fight what keeps peace. That is why I allowed Dionysus to take my place as one of the Twelve. It was expected of me. Good girls do what is expected. I felt a flash of resentment, like a lightning bolt, as he did. But after that, all I had left was the thunder, the pealing in my ears a reminder of my own selfishness. Good girls aren't selfish. I shouldn't resent Dionysus for having more ambition than me; for being remembered by the people more readily.

But I did, and I loathed myself for it. I make a pathetic good girl. Good girls are not resentful. Good girls love those that hate them. Good girls love those that are indifferent to their pain.

No one hates me, you see. They just don't care enough to. And no one loves me, either. Who could? I am just a sacrifice, even though I am a god.

Dionysus came to sit by me this morning.

Of course, I lie.

He came to sit by the fire. The others do that, whenever they are sorrowful, whenever they are in deep thought. They love the flames, which give comfort and strength. Hephaestus, especially, though that is to be expected from the fire god. Sometimes Heph leaves metal trinkets behind for me, bent cunningly into little animal figurines. He doesn't love me, either, but he is affectionate toward me, the way one would be towards a favorite pet. Perhaps he feels some kinship: neither of us are much looked at. I know these things, because I watch my brothers and sisters, and all others on Olympus.

But Dionysus, I do not know. He is young - a young god. He is vibrant. I am old and fading inside the body of a girl, whose sinews have stretched almost to snapping as she tries to grow to a woman. And fails, of course. Good girls fail.

But: Dionysus came to sit.

I thought he was staring at the flames at first, watching them dance and play. Fire is not just red - it is yellow, orange, blue, white, and a few colors no one has names for yet. Beautiful flames amid swirling ash. The only thing of beauty about me. I burned the sacrifice-meat and watched him from the other side of the fire, confident that I was blending into the background, as usual. But then, his eyes found me. His eyes are dark and bloodshot, heavily veined, from drinking his wine. Those dark eyes locked into mine. I dropped my gaze, preparing to fade away deeper into the smoke. Good girls do not let their betters see what is in their eyes.

Then, he spoke: "Hestia, dear sister." He paused, cleared his throat. I do not know why. His voice was smooth and round, like grapes ready for the harvest. Perhaps he was nervous. If he was, then I was more so. Good girls do not speak unless spoken to. Better yet, they do not speak at all. I said nothing, but I did not disappear.

"Hestia," he spoke again, bowing his head and tugging a thick lock of his dark, curly hair as a sign of deepest respect, "Thank you."

He must be drunk; must be joking. That is what I thought. How else could it be? Good girls are not thanked. No one has _ever _ thanked me, not once. But he was…sincere.

_Thank you._ The words warmed me more than the flames. I forgot to speak back, to thank him for thanking me. That was not something a good girl should forget.

Yet, I don't think Dionysus minded.


End file.
